| |
| WE wreathed about our darling’s head | |
| The morning-glory bright; | |
| Her little face looked out beneath | |
| So full of life and light, | |
| So lit as with a sunrise, | 5 |
| That we could only say, | |
| “She is the morning-glory true, | |
| And her poor types are they.” | |
| |
| So always from that happy time | |
| We called her by their name, | 10 |
| And very fitting did it seem,— | |
| For sure as morning came, | |
| Behind her cradle bars she smiled | |
| To catch the first faint ray, | |
| As from the trellis smiles the flower | 15 |
| And opens to the day. | |
| |
| But not so beautiful they rear | |
| Their airy cups of blue, | |
| As turned her sweet eyes to the light, | |
| Brimmed with sleep’s tender dew; | 20 |
| And not so close their tendrils fine | |
| Round their supports are thrown, | |
| As those dear arms whose outstretched plea | |
| Clasped all hearts to her own. | |
| |
| We used to think how she had come, | 25 |
| Even as comes the flower, | |
| The last and perfect added gift | |
| To crown Love’s morning hour; | |
| And how in her was imaged forth | |
| The love we could not say, | 30 |
| As on the little dewdrops round | |
| Shines back the heart of day. | |
| |
| We never could have thought, O God, | |
| That she must wither up, | |
| Almost before a day was flown, | 35 |
| Like the morning-glory’s cup; | |
| We never thought to see her droop | |
| Her fair and noble head, | |
| Till she lay stretched before our eyes, | |
| Wilted, and cold, and dead! | 40 |
| |
| The morning-glory’s blossoming | |
| Will soon be coming round,— | |
| We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves | |
| Upspringing from the ground; | |
| The tender things the winter killed | 45 |
| Renew again their birth, | |
| But the glory of our morning | |
| Has passed away from earth. | |
| |
| Earth! in vain our aching eyes | |
| Stretch over thy green plain! | 50 |
| Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, | |
| Her spirit to sustain; | |
| But up in groves of Paradise | |
| Full surely we shall see | |
| Our morning-glory beautiful | 55 |
| Twine round our dear Lord’s knee. | |
| |
